


A Curse, A Cure, Another Graves [NO LONGER PART OF SERIES]

by Desired_Misery



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror's POV of Graves' hospital stay, Gen, Graves is rightfully pissed about being in a hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, cursed injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desired_Misery/pseuds/Desired_Misery
Summary: [I decided I didn't like this one for the series. I'll keep it here since I wrote it and some of y'all seemed to enjoy it. But, I have a better plan for how this scene is going to go and I need to change the story too much for this to be part of my series anymore... so, it's like a parallel universe? Idk lol]The President herself approved of Trevor Rorke's appointment as Graves' guard at the hospital. In the chaos after Grindelwald's revealment, the loyalty of all the Aurors has been questioned.Trevor takes the assignment out of duty and respect.He waits outside, professionally ignores anything he overhears about the director's abysmal health and condition, and discourages at least three reporters from sneaking in. What Trevor can't stop, however, is Graves lashing out at anyone he sees when he wakes under the effects of potions.No oneblamesGraves for it- but he's dangerous.





	1. Snow and Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: there aren’t super graphic descriptions of injuries… but read with caution if you’re squeamish.
> 
>  
> 
> Trevor is a federal Auror, pictured [here](http://actingbabe.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/FB-TRL3-88496r.jpg) (the guy in the center).

\-- I --

Glass shatters.

No one else is in Graves’ room; Trevor keeps track of everyone. He has to know what kind of spells he can cast without trapping someone to face the director’s confused anger. Only three healers are willing to risk injury to treat him anymore.

None of them are here.

It was decided Graves should be left to sleep as much as possible. No visitors, limited medical check-ups and treatments. A constant figure at the hospital is Graves’ sister. She splits her time between her children and her brother.

There is little she can do besides sit vigil over her brother’s side. This past hour, Mrs. Stuart has gone for lunch with the children. Graves’ niece and nephew need something to do over their winter break besides harassing hospital staff members.

Trevor waits for a pause, waits for the door to buckle or the screech of repressed magic to punch through the wall. Nothing happens. It could have been magic lashing out as Graves dreams. Merlin knows what nightmares plague him. No one says aloud the result of an adult’s oppressed magic can mimic an Obscurus, a pseudo-effect born of similar circumstances. Graves is a powerful wizard but his magic is ragged, worn thin.

A repeat of the New York Obscurial mess would be poetic yet devastating.

The healers advised removing all dangerous objects from the director’s room. Anything that could be broken and used as a weapon. Trevor helped, an Auror’s mindset needed to judge what Graves could consider usable: the metal bars on the bed, the frame around the painting of gently swaying flowers (Graves warped the wood, yanking it clear off the wall and turned it into splinters that danced around him), any tools or equipment not in immediate use. Critical, Trevor pointed at the tiled floor.

At some point, they have to admit if Graves wants to cause injury he doesn’t need much to do it. Not even potions can stay. Graves woke (always bristling with fear and anger and pain) and shattered the vial a healer was holding, sending shards in her hands, stomach, and chest. She was fine only because Trevor jumped in with a stunning spell and threw her from the room.

Trevor watches over the director’s room alone. Someone needs to respond to Graves’ destruction and misguided attacks. He does not want anyone to risk their life when one Auror might be enough. It’s a damn joke- Trevor versus Graves. If Graves was coordinated, aware, and capable of rational thought… Trevor would be a corpse on the floor. But the director is wandless, disoriented to the point of concern. It must not be the Imperius Curse because there is no compulsion for Graves to harm them. It’s disjointed, spur of the moment.

Wand at his side ( instinct and reflex might kick the director to the offensive if Trevor points his wand at him), Trevor places his hand on the doorknob and opens it without rush or evident concern. He locates the source of breaking glass immediately.

The window panes are in pieces on the floor, the wooden dividers among them. Trevor hides his shock- Graves is awake.

Awake and so, so dissociated from his surroundings. Venturing into the room, Trevor halts at the threshold. Graves leans against the wall, his hands over the edge of the window sill and in the winter air, head bowed. How the hell did the director get over there? Trevor’s gaze drops to the floor, to the smears of blood on the sheets and the tile, the smudged fingerprints on the clean white trim of the window. Somehow Graves made a two-yard walk to the window unassisted and without a sound.

Snow dusts the room, taking advantage of the eliminated barrier. The temperature change is alarming; Graves only wears a set of pajamas and a thick robe. Even though Graves seems calm, Auror training has the back of Trevor’ neck prickle. The situation could turn explosive within moments.

“Mr. Graves, sir.” Trevor says, cautious as he tries to keep his voice neutral.

Is this what the magizoologist feels when he faces down his dangerous creatures? The distinct, delicate balance of false calm around dangerous beings? Trevor decides this is as far into the room he will go, knowing that his very presence is threatening.

The lack of a response does not ease his nerves.

Trevor waits, not wanting to press again. The private hospital room is nice if devoid of personal touches all hospitals lack. It is square, with the left wall facing out into the unplottable courtyard. Graves’ bed exposes a large stain of dried blood where the director had his back pressed against the mattress.

How _did_ Graves get over there? He hasn’t been able to move much, waking in agony and biting back sounds of pain. The healers sedate him so they can treat Graves’ wounds- he won't let them close otherwise.

The director’s posture screams injury. Graves’ stance is unbalanced with all his weight on his left leg. The tension he carries in his spine hunches his shoulders. Healers said he wouldn’t be able to walk- hopefully not forever- but the damage wrought is… nauseating. Trevor knows little about proper healing and even less about no-maj procedures, but he is reasonably confident Graves should not be standing when there are metal rods holding his right femur together.

Most alarming is the large splotch of soaked blood in the back of his robe. It is rust colored at the edge and a deep, wet crimson in the center. Under the stain is a cursed injury impervious to healing. (The healers have been hush-hush about it, uncomfortable and worried).

“It’s winter.”

If Trevor wasn’t staring at Graves when he spoke, he wouldn’t have believed the words came from his mouth, low and quiet and hoarse and nothing Graves has ever sounded like.

Thank Merlin Graves is in a room with access to the outdoors and not one with charmed windows. A man held in a small, damp, freezing, and dark room for who knows how long would not respond well to fake scenery.

_It’s winter._

Another one of Trevor’ tasks is to figure out when Graves was impersonated. His comment is not reassuring.

“Yes, sir.” He won’t press right from the start, but MACUSA needs to know. The bastard Grindelwald won’t talk.

As the healers gripe about keeping Graves warm, the man shattered the window to breathe in the biting winter air. Although, the lack of awareness might mean Graves doesn’t know he’s cold. He does not notice the blood he drips on the floor, the tremors in his hands.

Graves turns his head to look at him.

Trevor watches the director’s gaze jump from his face, hands, and the cracked door behind him. Then back to his wand, his face before fixating at a spot somewhere to Trevor’s left. Far enough so he can watch Trevor’s wand without staring.Trevor realizes this when he tightens his hold on the handle enough to be noticeable. There is an audible click as Graves swallows, ducking his head again.

“You’re letting the snow in, sir.” Trevor nudges the director’s attention back to the window.

There is a scar at the corner of Graves’ jaw. Another line of a curse glanced his left temple and trailed into his hairline. The deep grooves around Graves’ wrist are a dark angry red, caused by conjured ropes left too long and too tight. He could have lost his hands- it's a miracle he didn't.

The choice to pocket his wand is a gamble.

The lines of Graves’ shoulders and spine tense further. But his attention returns to the window, looking at the snow gathering among the pieces of glass. Graves uses his arm to brush snowflakes to the floor, revealing an inability or unwillingness to move his wrist and fingers. Trevor frowns. The scrape of glass and the fresh blood telling him the director cut up his arms or hands. Graves _has_ cut them on the edges of the glass and he doesn’t care.

The lack of concern for personal injury is beyond comprehension.

Before Trevor can decide on a course of action, the soft knock on a door startles them both. The atmosphere takes on a stinging charge, settling when Eudora pokes her head around the door, a cheerful smile wrinkling her face. Trevor refrains from sighing in relief. Eudora is an elderly mediwitch, sweet as sugar, and the antithesis of menacing. She is old enough to be a grandmother, but her brain is sharp and clear. Her short stature, plump and rosy cheeks, and her natural comfort around Graves is everything the hospital staff could offer in a mediwitch willing to risk injury.

Eudora smiles, trying to be reassuring. The glass at Graves’ feet stirs but does nothing more than shuffle on the tile. She keeps her wand in her sleeve. At least she has the sense to keep her wand hidden and not reach for it in reassurance.

The way Graves watches her, gaze flat and zeroed in on the healer’s hands... Trevor doesn’t like it. The director isn’t threatening her, his magic isn’t cracking around him. And yet, Trevor is on edge. Danger is in the air.

There is some unspoken set of rules Graves has in place. Trevor only started sketching the rough outline of the boundaries.

An undercurrent of tension and desperation reduces the director’s tolerance to a hair-thin trigger. Adding a third person is a major risk.

Eudora moves away from Trevor towards the counter on the wall opposite of Graves. Forcing Graves to pick someone to pay attention to- forcing him to _ignore_ one of them- means he has to decide who needs to be watched. Who can he possibly afford not to have eyes on? And since the director’s ability to move is negligible with a ruined leg, she forces him to adjust.

All Aurors were learned how to triage threats by making split-second decisions on who to watch. Graves does it well. His awareness in the field is so keen and sharp the director could be omniscient for all appearances. So when Graves’ gaze stays locked on Eudora, Trevor hides a scowl. Trevor is more familiar. His deliberate attempts to appear non-threatening worked. All it took was clear deferment and refusal to move further into the room.

“Mr. Graves, aren’t you cold with that window open?" Eudora means well, but her concern for the window is a jab at Graves’ choice to break it. Not intentionally, but she can’t read him like Trevor can. He is a top interrogator for a reason.

The skin around Graves’ eyes tightens as he studies her in silence.

“I’d feel better if you were warmer.”

Her concern is proper for a healer, wanting to take away the physical maladies. Eudora does not consider Graves’ behavior in context. As much as gossip rags talk, insanity is not what ails Graves. There is a particular path of logic he adheres to; it isn’t Graves’ fault Trevor can’t figure out his new system.

Torture will readjust priorities and values _fast_. The director was a man of logic and reason before Grindelwald. Graves has proven he can and will talk, so Trevor will refrain from calling his boss insane when it is plausibly shellshock.

“It’s always cold.” Graves mutters, quiet and rough.

Graves does not care the room cools to match the freezing temperatures outside. He wants the window open. In the grand scheme of it all, an open window is a minimal threat. A bigger point of concern is if Graves will launch the broken glass towards them.

Eudora brightens. “I’ve got a Pepper-Up if you’d like.”

In this instance, silence shouldn’t be taken as consent. On its heels follows the intolerable mistake.

Eudora approaches Graves, reaching into her robe. Trevor doesn’t read the director’s continued stillness with accuracy. Graves straightens up from leaning, tense and uneasy. But doesn’t give an indication he is unwilling to let the mediwitch near him. Eudora pulls out the potion vial, showing it to the director in an attempt to soothe his nerves.

The sudden sharpness in Graves’ dark eyes is calculating, malicious.

Trevor catches it too late.

Eudora offers the potion to Graves, gets within reach. The director shifts his weight forward- She screams.

Screams because Graves has an iron grip on her arm and opposite hand. The vial falls, shattering. Blackness spreads from where he touches her-

A stunning spell sends the director crashing to the floor among the glass. Another wave of his wand cushions Graves’ fall to limit what damage Trevor might have done.

Eudora staggers towards him, now silent. Trevor grabs her by the shoulder, turning her to take her out the room. Necrotizing flesh creeps out from Graves’ touch- acrid and rotten.

“Mercy Lewis,” breathes Trevor, bristling at the concentrated hatred and anger thrown off from the dying flesh. Eudora’s mouth is open in shock, her eyes wide. She holds her arms in front of her chest, staring.

They run into Victoria Graves Stuart returning from lunch. Trevor is thankful she leaves her kids in the waiting room. This isn't for a child to see.

Her cross expression morphs into concern, gaze dropping to Eudora’s shaking hands. She is a lot like her brother. A commanding presence and steady nerves must be a family trait.

“Salem’s fires, what did he do?” She hisses, sharp with worry.

Mrs. Stuart’s wand hovers over the spreading curse. She is no healer but anything will help. Eudora’s breathing is shallow and fast, caused by shock and pain.

Trevor listens, but he can’t hear or feel anything from Graves anymore. In his peripheral, he sees a nurse evaluate the situation and then turn to run.

Magic snaps, wild and electric, as Graves’ sister fights the curse with a blanket of healing magic. The amount of energy she pours into the spell is impressive. Without even knowing what Graves cast, Mrs. Stuart ends the curse’s progress by making it absorb her magic. It isn't a delicate, precise counter-curse but a brutal, steady show of force.

It is a method used in Archives. Aurors destroy magical items by overloading spells until they give out. Of course a Graves can do the work of many in seconds without fainting.

The skin of Eudora’s forearm starts to slough off, falling away from muscle as connective tissue dies. It’s one hell of a curse, close to dark magic. Shock keeps Eudora still and pliant as Mrs. Stuart begins to push the edge of blackened cells to a halt. Another wave of magic- so strong that Trevor can feel it spark against his skin and taste ozone on his tongue - focuses on the mirrored curse wreaking havoc in Eudora’s hand. Mrs. Stuart conducts it through her gloved fingers placed next to the dead tissue.

If this was the proper time, Trevor would shake his head in disbelief. She’s as talented as her brother. But he keeps his hands on the healer’s shoulders for support, watching the magic of one sibling consume the other’s.

Sensing magic is a common skill, but reading it with any degree of finesse is hard to master. Trevor learned with relative ease thanks to his mind’s ability to predict and unearth meaning in a person’s behavior. Graves’ wordless curse drips with compressed, rotting anger. It is in two parts: the desire to cause cell death and the impulse to spread. Mrs. Stuart tackles the growth first, neutralizing it like a proper Auror.

Trevor wonders if Graves taught his sister the basic skills in the Auror Academy.

Two other healers rush over. Trevor redirects one to Graves’ room, wincing at the image of the director crashing to the floor like that. He hopes he didn’t reopen any wounds.

A whimper draws Trevor’s attention back. Mrs. Stuart holds the skin of Eudora’s hand and fingers in the palm of her cream glove. Disgust has Trevor swallow hard, but Graves’ sister coaxes the blackening layer of skin to lie back where it should be. She doesn’t even grimace- what in Merlin’s beard does she _do_ to have an iron stomach?

“I think you should sit down.” She offers in the same tone Graves uses often. It is a hidden order, a suggestion turned demanding in the polite matter-of-fact way it is said. The second healer- an elder wizard Trevor has never seen before- directs a thick herbal-scented cream to cover the injuries with his wand. Trevor pulls over a chair, guiding Eudora down.

Critical, Mrs. Stuart studies the boundaries of black tissue as she lets her magic ebb. Almost the entirety of Eudora’s left hand is black, her fingernails a purple-blue where the curse just touched. A few streaks on her left arm is all it could manage before the magical store Graves used to back it up was dismantled. Her right arm is worse. It looks like spider venom burnt a large hole into the flesh, consuming half the length of her forearm. Where Graves touched her the skin it hardened but degraded to a sloppy mush elsewhere. Bloody fat oozes, drips.  

“Let's get this looked at and treated,” the medi-wizard says with smooth artificial calm. “Mrs. Stuart, would be you so kind as to join us-”

“Of course.” She does not recoil or give any indication the liquid-like tissue remnants on her gloves is of any concern to her. Mercy Lewis, are all Graveses unflappable? What kind of parents turn out a wizard and a witch of this caliber?

A wordless flick of Mrs. Stuart’s wand scrubs away the mess on the floor. Trevor studies her wand. Dark brown wood, long, with a silver handle and a similar inlaid ring like the director’s. He catches sight of an emerald set in the pommel of the wand as Mrs. Stuart hides it away. Bold, sleek, and slightly masculine for such a proper, beautiful lady.

Eudora’s quietness reminds Trevor of the Junior Aurors the first time they get hit with a curse. A deathly silence makes it hard to judge the severity of the spell. Worse is when it happens and they are out of sight. Phantom tension creeps into his spine to watch Eudora escorted away, an itchiness always present when Trevor is with the Juniors.

It is on him Eudora was hurt.

Another healer enters Graves’ room behind him. Trevor turns and takes his place at the right of the door just half a step in the way. Bitterness coats his tongue. He keeps his wand out, pointed at the ground.

Waiting.

Trevor is not family so he does not pry when the healers leave Graves’ room three-quarters of an hour later. It is not his business to know the director’s health.

He was stationed here in case anyone else tried to harm Graves, but it has turned into protecting the healers. Graves cannot be blamed when he is chock-full of potions and sick as a dog. Anyone would be rightfully ornery after spending an indefinite time with Grindelwald.

The smart click of heels down the hall and approaching quickly draws Trevor’s attention. It is Graves’ sister making her way towards him, expression unreadable. What is it about a Graves that makes Trevor straighten his spine? She is an impressive woman who carries herself like the director- confident and proud.

“Auror Rorke,” she greets in the same manner as the director. It is a clever social trick to somehow remain both warm and polite, useful to those in politics. However, Mrs. Stuart is an unknown to the department. Graves has not mentioned her and she does not work for MACUSA. Another Graves would not have been able to slip under the radar. The information gathered on her is nearly insignificant.

She is married, has two children, and is not often present in Graves’ life if she did not notice Grindelwald impersonated her own brother. There is some point of contention between her and her father, serious enough the elder Graves did not stay in the hospital with his son. (No one meant to pry, but the argument was not subtle).

Trevor inclines his head, murmuring a proper ‘Mrs. Stuart’ in response. Instead of going into the room, she pauses before him. Her attire is a slight shift from current fashion. Her navy overcoat is styled more after a man’s than a woman’s, with a thin lining of light colored fur inside of the collar. Her dark hair is up in some kind of fancy bun, different from the usual bobs Trevor sees his female co-workers wear.

“Eudora will be healed in a few days. She thanks you for your help.”

Trevor smiles, strained. “You did most of the work, ma’am. You’re very talented.”

The corner of Mrs. Stuart’s mouth ticks up in acknowledgment of his praise. Her lips are a striking dark red contrasting with her pale complexion and dark hair, pulling out the hint of rouge on her cheeks. Trevor shakes himself. Beautiful or not, she’s a Graves. Trevor has no inclination to accidentally insult any member of that family with improper behavior. (Although it is clear Mrs. Stuart is more than capable of hexing Trevor herself).

She wrings her hands in a moment of visible uncertainty.

“We’ve agreed to move Percival to my house within the next week. I hope- well, it should help to be somewhere familiar and away from the hospital. He never liked them.” Mrs. Stuart admits, hesitant. Her dark eyes slide back to Trevor’s. It is bizarre to hear Graves referred to by his first name.

Keeping his expression neutral, Trevor nods in agreement.

“These kinds of places don’t agree with him and now…” She trails off, guilty and upset but hiding it well. Trevor appreciates the forewarning. Soon he won’t have to stand watch at the door for most of the day and into the evening. He entertains himself by guessing the personalities and lives of those that walk by him. (He wishes a Grindelwald supporter would try to get past- to have the chance to curse someone with vengeance).

Being home for the holidays would be nice.

“The healers have allowed to let me stay with him the entire day tomorrow in hopes I can be there if he wakes.” _To calm him down_ is not said, but implied. “You will wait outside unless I specifically call for you, do you understand?”

Trevor has a half-second of protest forming before he catches himself. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Stuart studies him, amused. “I can hold my own; I cannot have others risk their health and lives if I may be of use.” The steel in her voice and the slight jut of her chin dares him to argue.

 _Mercy Lewis_ , she is so much like her brother.

“I have no doubts, Mrs. Stuart.” Trevor dips his head in deferment. Oh, he has some concerns but truthfully, it is safer for her than anyone else. If her family connection isn’t enough to calm the director into a semblance of rationality, her magic will save her.

As an interrogator, Trevor is used to criminals attempting to glean into his soul and mind in an effort to deflect his hard hitting, precise questions. Very few have the disconcerting intelligence Victoria Graves Stuart has in her dark eyes. Cautious, Trevor fortifies his mental shield. Either Mrs. Stuart has an unwavering mask of indifference or she is not a legilimens. At this point, not much could shake Trevor about a Graves.

The director is not a mind-reader, but he could be for his skills in perception.

“Hmm.” She considers him, taking him at his word. “He shouldn’t wake up until next morning, so I hope this night is uneventful for you.”

Too bad none of them are Grindelwald. Everything Graves has thrown at them is because he wakes up thinking he is still trapped in a room with the darkest wizard of the era. The hatred Trevor felt pouring off the cursed injuries is from an indefinite amount of time sitting in a cell with nothing to do but hate and suffer. Graves’ magic curdled, unused and trapped.

“Agreed,” he says.

Mrs. Stuart casts a glance towards the door again, longing and grief softening her features. It does not surprise Trevor when she decides not to enter the room and instead heads back to the waiting room with a formal, distracted goodbye tossed back to him. He watches her walk away with an invisible burden weighing on her shoulders. Not that anyone could tell, with her perfect posture and commanding presence.

Trevor returns to observing the hospital staff bustling about him. They give him a wide berth to avoid their most dangerous patient. Time speeds by, broken during meal breaks and the few hours off Trevor takes in the dead of night to sleep while Auror Valencia takes his brief shift, one of the few people approved immediately by the Investigations Council.

The elder Auror does not speak about the ongoing investigation and his new responsibilities as a co-temporary director with Auror Xiong. He cannot divulge secrets when Grindelwald supporters might be listening. He can, however, bring good food from a proper restaurant and his company. Trevor scarfs down food, chats, then retires to the adjacent hospital room (reserved for him) to crash on the cot.

What a mess.


	2. Pending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three whole weeks.

True to her word, Mrs. Stuart’s request to have Graves placed under her care is approved within the week. December twenty-second is the last day Trevor stands watch at the door. After three weeks of waiting for  _ something  _ to be decided, the final decision happens without fuss from the press. (Because they don’t know about it, as planned). 

There are no more incidents. Graves’ sister was able to convince the director she was who she said she was and somehow got him to calm down in a rare moment of lucidity. Graves’ niece and nephew visit the morning of, the first time they are allowed into the hospital room. The eldest is a school-aged girl with light brown hair and solemn eyes hardened in an attempt to appear strong. She holds the hand of her younger brother who is about five if Trevor had to guess. Children are harder to read than adults when parents imprint formation and behavior on them.

Healers rush back and forth, relaying information and instructions to Mrs. Stuart while they gather anything she might need. Trevor ignores most of it, keeping his eyes locked on the opposite wall as the now familiar faces of the hospital staff walk past him. Although he keeps his mouth shut, he cannot avoid overhearing conversations not meant for him.

Trevor is not the type of man to spread information to the gossip columnists, but if he was President Picquery would be on his ass so fast he wouldn’t have time to say  _ Protego _ . And Val would kick him six ways to Sunday. And then Goldstein would join in with her re-cemented loyalty burning bright and hot.

Not that he would ever dare to do such a thing to anyone- certainly not to Graves, one of the most considerate bosses he’s ever had. The journalists he detained claim freedom of the press and all sorts of nonsense to steal personal secrets about the director. What good would learning the director’s medical chart do?

The public doesn’t care about Graves personally- clearly not, with the headlines demanding his removal from the post. Some go so far as to call for his arrest. Trevor holds his tongue, doesn’t fight back with the rage growing in his chest. He gathered from inference and sub context that Grindelwald played loose and careless with the Cruciatus curse. No one can fight it for any length of time.

Unless a life-altering event happened to Graves, he wouldn’t willingly give up information to Grindelwald. The dark wizard is everything Graves stands against. But short of- no, there is nothing Trevor can think of that would make it even reasonably plausible for the director’s steadfast convictions to change.

Nothing short of torture.

Trevor ponders as he collects the last of his things in the spare hospital room. Knowing Graves’ pride, the fewer people who see him vulnerable the better. As an interrogator, Trevor has seen the damage done by Cruciatus Curses. It is an ugly curse if you mean it- Auror training requires casting it on one another once, but if there is no intent to harm the curse will knock the air out of the target and feel like a mild shock.

But a psychopath like Grindelwald would have no hesitation.

Despite the clamor for Graves’ head, there is no official in MACUSA willing to throw the director under the bus without a solid case against him. Picquery’s involvement has made her position clear; she supports him. Sure, there are mutterings but there will be no public denouncement without the backing of the Investigations Council. It will take months of hearings and side investigations to reach a verdict.

Right now the Auror Department is under investigation. Every employee has to redo the vetting process. They cannot take a chance to have a Grindelwald supporter in the mix when they are looking for evidence. The team going through Graves’ penthouse is very small: Picquery (because she knows the director and his home), Goldstein (she isn’t a Grindelwald supporter if Grindelwald tried to kill her), and Val. The other pardoned Aurors sift through the past few weeks of MACUSA files, searching for any discrepancies between Graves’ files as himself and Grindelwald’s front.

Too bad Graves is in no state to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I felt that it didn't fit with the other chapter well.
> 
> Also, is this a good time to mention the first time I saw Graves on screen I thought the actor was Ryan Renolds and I still picture him as Ryan Renolds???

**Author's Note:**

> ***I swear most of this will be explained in the fic(s) that go before this one.
> 
> There will be a fic set between “Wisconsin Night Oversight” and this one at a later date to cover the time skip from this point and the movie. There you’ll be properly introduced to Percival’s sister, Victoria. But for the sake of lessening confusion:  
> Victoria Graves Stuart is six years younger than Percival, making her 31. She has a fourteen-inch wand of black walnut and it has a white river monster spine core. Thiago made a few custom wands when Percival neared the age of needing one (at the father Graves instance). Percival’s father also hired people to try and match Percival to a wand so Thiago can make him the perfect wand (rich, overbearing fathers, amiright?). Of course, Percival didn’t match any of the wands commissioned for him. Victoria, on the other hand, matched one to the annoyance of her father. It is why she has an expensive, beautifully cut emerald of the Graves family set in the pommel of her wand and her brother doesn’t.  
> (She looks a lot like Paget Brewster in my head. Gorgeous, but very capable of murder. It’s a family thing, tbh).
> 
> Also, super sorry at the grossness. I am not squeamish at all when it comes to injuries (expect needles in between joints- looking at you, lumbar punctures! D:) so as long as I can’t *smell* anything I’m not bothered. I didn’t feel like this qualifies as “graphic descriptions of violence”, but maybe you have a different opinion.
> 
>  
> 
> I feel like my writing is missing something vital, but I can’t figure it out no matter how long I stare at my screen. Do you have this sense as well, or am I just being fussy? Please let me know! (Unbeta'd, unfortunately). Comment if you enjoyed or have feedback! It fuels my writer's energy tank :)


End file.
